Page 19 of Life After You

The house feels a little warmer as I get ready to leave.

I slip the key into the cabinet. It slides open with ease, and I can picture Braden—arms crossed, wry smile, brow raised—watching me.

“I’ll take real good care of her, I promise,” I say, amused.

Reaching in, I unclip his keys from a leather wallet nestled in a foam insert beside a small rack of 10mm sockets—because those bastard things were always going missing, and Braden made sure to have extras. A man after my own heart.

It isn’t until I pop the door and slide into the driver’s seat, key hovering near the ignition, that I realize my earlier words could apply to both Mac and his ‘69 Charger.

“Both. I’ll take care of both, mi compadre.”

Not that I expect a response. But saying it out loud just feels right.

The key clicks into the ignition. Hands on the cold steering wheel, I adjust the rearview mirror, then each wing mirror, nodding once in satisfaction. I engage the ignition, and… nothing.

A thought strikes, and I grin.

Braden wouldn’t have left the battery connected. He’d either have it on a charging station or…

I pop the hood and climb out, propping it open. Sure enough, the battery is in place, but the leads aren’t connected. I grab a spanner from the tool chest, securing the terminals before giving the engine a once-over. Everything else looks good.

I slam the hood shut and slide back into the seat.

“Okay, baby. I already lifted your skirt, we had a little foreplay, and you’re looking radiant. Now, let me show you a good time.”

I twist the key.

At first, there’s a flat splutter.

“Ah, ¿estás nerviosa?” I chuckle, teasing.

She struggles to catch, so I kill the ignition before I flood it. Give her a second. Then try again.

This time, she roars to life—growling, snarling like a wild animal set free. The sound sends a rush of pure, stupid joy through me.

I grab the garage door opener and ease her onto the street. She chugs along like she owns the place.

Braden’s probably shaking his head, watching over me. I can picture that big, goofy grin, ear to ear.

The gas tank is full. I pop open the glove box, finding a small Dodge-stamped wallet—about four hundred bucks American inside. Along with four mix tapes.

“Jesus, Braden, you were just as bad as me.”

The man refused to upgrade to MP3s, which means no skipping tracks. I hit play, curious what his last choice was.

The Carpenter’s. Really?

“Sorry, dude. Not today.”

I eject the tape and rummage through the pile until I find one labeled Power Mix.

“That sounds promising.”

I shove it in, crank the volume, and grin as Thunderstruck bursts from the speakers.

This’ll do nicely.

Fingers tapping the wheel to the beat, I drop her into gear and take off. Tires squeal in delight. The wind screams past.

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